Observe The Pureblood Sons
by rockinfaerie
Summary: The War of Grindlewald. An aged pureblood looks back on the tragic horrors he faced and the friends he lost in this sad story. Review.
1. Prologue

This is a wizard adaptation of "Observe The Sons of Ulster Marching Towards The Somme" by Frank McGuinness. The world is that of the Harry Potter stories by JK Rowling. This chapter is of my own invention to link both worlds.

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**Observe The Pureblood Sons Marching Towards Grindlewald****

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**Prologue**

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He turned quietly. He sniffed the dusty air, slowly inhaling the repressive nature of his heavy bed coverings, and the ancient sweat that lingered around him.

He had dreamed of them that night.

The door creaked open. He heard soft, slow footsteps as they padded towards him across the carpet. They grew louder, and then they stopped. He could feel the shadow of the figure on his body as the walking being stood by the bed. It was Draco, he assumed; he could hear his breathing as the boy placed something heavy on the bedside table.

Tiresias lay still, his shoulders hunched, his arms wrapped around his body to protect him from the cold morning air. He knew it was morning, for the birds were singing. Those sounds held little joy for him.

He waited for Draco to leave. He had no need for companionship. He heard the boy's retreating footsteps as they left the room, and the click of the door as it closed shut after him.

Tiresias breathed again.

He moved his arm out from beneath the security of his blankets, and reached for the sharp corner beside him. His hand rested on it for a time, feeling the pleasantly firm point dig into the palm of his hand. He slowly slid his hand over the cracks in the wooden table surface, until it gently faltered on a smooth object, hot against his frail skin.

The smell had drifted to him, a familiar smell, one that shamed him. Carrots, potatoes and leeks tunnelled into his nose, drowning out any other smell he routinely sought comfort in.

His finger continued up the hot convex bowl wall, until it teetered casually on the edge. Then, in sudden decision, he plunged his finger into the soup,a burning sensation taking hold. He stirred the soup slightly, the soft chunks swirling around his aching skin. He withdrew it. He could bear the pain no longer.

He moved the moist digit to his mouth, his tongue burning too, the blistering pain affording no room for taste.

His arm slammed down on the bedclothes. It made no sound, only causing the mattress to shake slightly.

Tiresias rolled back into his natural position, his hand shaking slightly. He was not used to such excursions. He had done it out of simple necessity. It was a mere break from his monotonous world. He wondered if that act had changed anything.

How he hated his life. Lying there in the darkness, being cared for by his family, who refused to acknowledge his existence as a human, however futile it was.

He turned his back to the steaming soup bowl. He tucked his hands under his armpits and slowly drifted into his usual stupor.


	2. Remembrance

Disclaimer: All dialogue in this piece is from the play "Observe The Sons of Ulster" by Frank McGuinness. I have slightly translated it to fit the wizard world, that of the Harry Potter books by JK Rowling.

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**Remembrance

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His chest heaved. His eyes had flared open pointlessly. His arms flailed at objects and beings far out of his reach. The duvet fell off him exposing his body to the desperate cold.

Tiresias had woken.

Then he heard it once more – those crashes, those screams, those enemies. The sounds gathered around him, in front of him, and at the back of his mind. These were vague sounds, grey sounds, blurred in his eardrum – but he had heard it many times.

"Again."

Tiresias had spoken, but the sounds only grew louder.

"As always again."

The sounds began to melt around him, deafening him. He heard the slow falls, the crackling of flames. They lingered there, echoing in his dark room.

"Why does this persist? What more have we to tell each other? I remember nothing today."

Yet the sounds did not drop. He could hear voices. Vague, incoherent words stumbled on his ears. He could hear their footsteps.

"Absolutely nothing."

Tiresias sat up, his hands shaking beyond his control. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper.

"I do not understand your insistence on my remembrance. I'm being too mild. I am angry at your demand that I continue to probe. Were you not all there in your dark glory? Have you no conception of the horror? Did it not touch you at all? A passion for horror disgusts me."

They ignored him. Tiresias' voice grew louder.

"I have seen horror."

Now the noise dimmed. They stood in there, just out of his reach.

"There is nothing to tell you. Those willing to talk to you of that day, to remember for your sake, to forgive you, they invent as freely as they wish."

He heard those whistles, and then laughter.

"I am not one of them. I will not talk. I will not listen to you. Invention gives that slaughter shape."

He buried his head in his hands.

"That scale of horror has no shape."

His forehead was wet. He had grown angry.

"Your actions on that day were not, they are not acceptable. You have no right to excuse that suffering, parading it for the benefit of others."

The room fell silent.

"I will not apologize for that outburst before you. You know I am given to sudden fits like that. The shock you gave never left my system entirely. I still see your ghosts. Very infrequently. During daylight now. Merlin, you are kind in your small mercies. Did you intend that we should keep seeing ghosts? It was the first sign that your horrors had shaken us into madness. Some were lucky enough to suffer your visions immediately. Those I belonged to, those I have forgotten, the irreplacable ones, they kept there nerve, and they died. I survived. No, survival was not my lot."

He shuddered.

"Darkness, for eternity, is not survival."

The noise would not return. He could hear his own shallow breathing.

"There is a type of man who invites death upon himself. I thought once this is the stuff heroes are made from. I enlisted in the hope of death. I would be such a man. But mine was not the stuff of heroes. Those with me were heroes because they died without complaint for what they believed in."

He coughed.

"They taught me, by the very depth of their belief, to believe. To believe in you, the Pureblood race. What sense could you make of this sacrifice?"

His senses had become sharper.

"I at least continued their work in this respect. The freedom of faith they fought and died for would be mantained. There would be, and there will be no surrender. The Pureblood sons will rise and lay their enemy low, as they did before, as they do now, against any invader who will trespass on their power."

He could feel his hands grasping his wand.

"Mudbloods claim magic as their ancestor, but it is ours, for they lay down for centuries and wept at their loss, but we took up arms and fought against the ocean."

He brought his wand down with a swish through the air.

"An ocean of blood. That blood is our inheritance. Not theirs. Death Eaters? Ourselves alone. It is we, the Pureblood people, who have always stood alone. We have stood alone and triumphed, for we are the chosen."

He dropped the wand. He could feel them. Those shadows creeping into his skull.

"Leave me. Do not posses me. I do not wish to be your chosen."

He buried his head in the warmth of his bed, but the memories raced through his head.

"Leave me. Must I remember? Yes, I remember. I remember details. I remember the sky was pink, extraordinarily pink. There were men from Hogsmead, talking about fishing. A good man who wanted to enter the Ministry gave me purple robes. We sang and played Quidditch."

Tiresias almost smiled.

"That is true, Quidditch. Someone said the sky is red today. David said it's pink. And I looked up and I could see again. I saw the sky in him. I knew he would die, for he was turning from earth to air."

Light filtered into Tiresias' mind, and he saw them. They walked before him, standing erect. Their mouths were drawn in tight, horizontal lines.

He could see them now, the man with the Quaffle, and two others. Not one spoke.

"You have bestowed your parting gift. Welcome."

Not one of the men would look at him. Tiresias tried to reach out to him, but his arm would not move.

"You look angry, David. Have I hurt you by speaking? I can't understand silence. Can you, Roulston, you, Crawford? I envy your happiness together. But you must call as you wish. This place is yours when you wish it to be. I want you here. I want you to stay with me."

Tiresias looked urgently around the room.

"Where are the others? Is Moore still searching for John Millen? Will he never believe Millen cannot be found? If he were found, would he not return here? Moore must stop searching. It is time to rest. I would rest, but when he frees you from his darkness, he asks questions, as if he wishes to remember."

The faces stared down at him in the darkness, each feature oddly placed. Tiresias pressed them.

"Where is Anderson? Still attending McIlwaine? I saw that, you know. Cut in two. Anderson falling on top of him as if his body could hold McIlwaine's body together. I looked and saw his blood was the same colour as my blood. When I saw that colour, I felt my blood on fire and no water would ever quench it again."

He gazed at the man with the Quaffle.

"You were right David, the last battle. I died that day with you."

They were still, all silent.

"The house has grown cold. This world has grown lonely. We discourage visitors. Security."

He continued, longing for their attentions.

"Men my age have been burned in their beds. Half-Blood cowards. They won't burn me out with their fire. I have defeated fire before."

The three faces above him stared straight ahead.

"And you will always defend me. You will always guard Purity. I miss you. Each day that increases. Is that because I'm coming closer to you? Am I at last leaving earth for air? Tell me. Give me a sign. Touch me. Why are you silent with me? Have I said too much? Have I said enough? Tell me."

Tiresias was kneeling. His stiff legs were bent under his body. The shadows were grey.

"I want to ask you something. I need your answer before I turn into air. Answer me why we did it. Why we let ourselves be led to extermination? In the end, we were not led, we led ourselves. We claimed we would die for each other in battle. To fulfil that claim we marched into the battle that killed us all. That is not loyalty. That is not love. That is hate. Deepest hate."

Still they would not answer.

"Hate for one's self. We wished ourselves to die and in doing so we let others die to satisfy our blood lust. That lust we inherited. The true curse of Merlin. I was born knowing there was something rotting in wizard-kind."

"I tried to preserve that knowledge, David. To die willingly, to die clutching it, but you defend my death. I need defiance now, David. This world lies in rubble at our feet. Save it. Save me. Take me out of this war alive. Evil is come upon us. The temple of the Lord is darkness. He has ransacked his dwelling. The Pureblood ones die."

Tiresias began to sing, his voice reaching his shadowy listeners.

"Fare thee well, Hogwarts, fare thee well for a while, and when the war is over –"

Four more figures appeared before him. These too stood straight-backed, their expressions sombre but proud.

"You are here at last. Your rest begins. Brompton, Mullard, Thompson, Rookwood. I have remarkably fine skin, Thompson. Remarkably fine for a man. Look David, I've cut myself peeling an apple. Kiss it better."

He reached his hand out once more to the ghosts.

"Dance in the deserted temple of the Lord. Dance unto death before the Lord.

Another man arrived beside Tiresias, this time very familiar. He recognised the man as himself – a younger, much younger self.

"Myself. My soul. Dance. Dance."

His arms moved above his head, and the room was plunged once more into darkness, and the sounds and beats and words of that time came crashing down on the old man in his bed.


End file.
